Strangers In The Night
by CrystallineSolid
Summary: Greg goes over to Nick's house the night of Allison Bailey's death. Comfort sex ensues, hence the M rating. Day One in the seven-day Sinatra Series following Greg's week after Allison's death.


Title: Strangers In The Night  
Summary: Greg goes over to Nick's house after Allison Bailey's death, and they try to work some things out. Day One in the Sinatra Series, following Greg's week after Allison's death.  
Genre: Romance, Hurt/Comfort  
Rating: M  
Spoilers: It Was A Very Good Year.

* * *

"I'm sorry."

You push aside my suit jacket and press a kiss to my collarbone. You take a deep breath, smelling my neck, licking up it. I grab onto your shoulders. Did even you hear me?

"I'm sorry," I say again, closing my eyes, because I can't mix this pain with this pleasure.

"I'm sorry too—"but you're voice is husky. Why are you doing this now? You pull away and look me in the eye. "About Allison."

I close my eyes. I don't like hearing her name on your lips. "I used to call her Allie. She hated it, but I told her, it's just a week, then no one'll ever call you Allie again."

When I open my eyes you are staring at me and I can feel the ants crawling under my skin.

"Why are you sorry?" You say so softly that the question is almost innocent. But you know why I'm sorry, you just want me to say it. Fuckgoddamnit. Why can't you be straight with me?

"That I didn't tell you."

Your lips on me again, hot and heavy, your hands pressed against my stomach. Too much cloth. My jacket too hot, and you always say _you're so hot in your jacket_. I'm waiting for you to say something, but you don't, won't. I have to explain, fill up this silence, but you make me st-stutter whenever you graze your teeth against my skin just… over… there. So why are you doing this? I'm trying to apologize. Why won't you make this easy for me?

I'd pull away from you, but you're gripping my shirt. My skin is burning.

"I was with her just a couple of months before Warrick," I'm panting. Very rarely can you make me do that. Too much intensity for one day. "Before Warrick…you know," I dig my fingernails into your hips, while you wrestle me out of my jacket, untuck my shirt _please don't take it off. "_And after the f-funeral we… we s-started doing… this," I can't stop myself from moaning. You have the decency not to smirk but I can see it in your eyes.

"Nick, please," I push you away, not too hard, but you stumble backwards anyway. I plant my hands on your chest, and stretch out my arms, so that I can maintain some distance from you. Now, I can talk to you without shaking. "It was too soon. I thought if I talked about her, I'd sound too nostalgic and you'd run away… and then, I dunno, it never seemed like the right time. After a while, I, well, I wanted to keep the memory for myself. I didn't want anyone to know, I didn't want to ruin it by saying it out loud… God, Nicky, I didn't want anyone to find out about this."

You don't say anything. You're kissing me roughly now, on the lips for the first time since I walked in. I don't have the heart, don't even have the presence of mind to respond to your advances. Your lips move quickly, pressing hard against mine, on my jawnosethroat. Your teeth… somewhere.

"You're mad," I groan, and even I don't know what I mean. You _are _angry; you're crazy too. I don't know if I'm asking you a question or stating a fact. I don't even know if you're angry; don't know if you're crazy. Think maybe I'm crazy, know I'm angry. So angry that even if I just think about it I'll explode.

_Frank fucking Sinatra at the fucking Sands. Fuck you, Allison._

"Of course, I'm mad," You spit out, and you really do sound angry. But then why are you kissing me like that? "But we've both been mad at each other a lot these days, huh?"

And I know what you're talking about: when you quit. For a week, I camped out on the couch studying for my criminalistics certification. You'd wait up for me, but I'd stay in the living room till you dozed off, and only then would I slip into bed. Some nights, I'd fall asleep on the couch and wake up with a crick in my neck, aching all over.

And it went on until one day I woke up to find that you'd relocated to the couch, and were sleeping with your head in my lap. That while I was sleeping I'd curled my fingers through your hair.

You almost quit your job, but I'm the one who almost quit us because of it. Sometimes, it makes me feel guilty, but then I remember how I felt when you first announced you were going to quit, the cold dread that washed over me. It hurt me to know that you were going to leave me, even just at work; hurt so much because I finally realized I couldn't stand the thought of us being over.

We can't quit this job, not after we've let it hurt us like this. I can't quit you, now that I've given you the power to hurt me.

(and I can't hurt you, now that you let me. Now that you can't quit me.)

"Greg, you're shaking."

And I thought I was just imagining the tremble in my knees, the unsteadiness in my bones. My stomach hurts.

You wrap your arms around my waist, and I try not to let you support my weight. Dammit, I'm stronger than this. I need to be alone.

"I'm fine. Just tired. Too much coffee."

"Did you cry?" and the way you say it makes me shudder. I think maybe I need this. "You need to, you know," you continue, because you already know that I've held back the tears, that I never let myself cry in front of people, try not to cry in front of myself. "You have to stop being strong."

"I'm not strong," my voice is trembling, all those tears rising. All those tears that I thought had finally abandoned me; had finally left me alone. Maybe if I'd been able to scream when I first saw her in that piano. Maybe if I could even have brought myself to _speak_, I wouldn't be this way right now. "Not strong enough to accept my weaknesses."

Now, you pull away and I am left aching for your touch. Still holding back tears. Can't let this show, need to let this go. You eyes are so serious now, all that wickedness gone. You are on a mission now.

"Greg, Allison is dead," and I know what you're doing. You're trying to make this real. I saw the fucking gashes all over her, how real does this have to get? "She was all sliced up, G. Did you see that cut along her jaw? Even if she was alive, she'd be scarred for life."

You don't like to be cruel, but it's what I need. I close my eyes. My chest feels tight. I'm still holding back. Oh God… Please, Nicky, don't do this.

"Greg, she's dead because she wanted to see you. That nutjob killed her because of a _vinyl_ record."

Dead because of me. It's been on my mind for a while, but hearing you say it out loud just about does me in. I bite my knuckles instinctively, and wrap my other hand around the base of your neck. I'm crying now, the tears seeping through my control. You're holding my shaking body at arm's length. I'm trying not to sob, not to look at you.

"And I moved on," I gasp out. "She w-wanted to see me, and I didn't even wait for her."

I wrap my arms around myself, because I can't keep it in anymore. You embrace me, pressing me to yourself. I can't bring myself to respond. I try to become as small as I can, with my arms hugged to my chest.

I close my eyes. It takes all my strength not to bury my face into your neck, warm and dry. You run your hands through my hair, and press my face into you, and the relief that floods through me makes me sob again.

I raise shaking hands to grip your forearms—keeping you here, pushing you away, I don't know.

"Relax, G, please," you murmur. "You're so stiff."

"I can't," I choke out. My voice hitches, shame rising in me. "I'm _baw_ling, Nicky."

You pull away so that you can see my face. You pity me, and the look on your face is so gentle that the tears refuse to stop.

I try to rub away the tears, but you pull my hands away, and hold them in your own. "What will help?"

"I don't know."

You frown and nod. I know you hate this, hate not being able to help me. I'm afraid that there's a part of you that hates _me_, hates that _now,_ when you want to yell at me for lying to you, you have to take care of me instead.

I pull away completely. I can't regain my composure while you're touching me. I stare at the floor, feeling naked even in my shirtsleeves. I press my chin to my chest, and look up at you. You seem to realize that I need to take a step back and dissolve this intimacy. And I know you hate this too.

"I dug out the old record player for you. Morgan told me she bought you Sinatra at the Sands."

I feel myself stiffen. Morgan. I can't even think about her. Part of me wants to tell her all about you, what you really mean to me, but we've hidden this for so long I don't even know how to begin. I remember the feel of her hand, small and soft against mine. I think of Allison, of you… think of how I'm letting everyone down.

I swipe a hand across my face again, and bite my lip to keep it from trembling. I nod, and say in a gravelly voice: "It's in my bag."

Then you're moving away, doing everything for me because I can't. You put the record on, and I'm still standing dumbly, staring at the wall when the record springs to life. Laughter, applause, Sinatra's opening speech. _Come Fly With Me._

Allison knew me so well, knew that when I'd listen to this album, I wouldn't just be hearing the music: I'd be visualizing the whole concert, the whole era. I close my eyes, try to see Frank and not her. You grab me by the wrist, lead me to the couch, and pull me down. I stumble and fall backwards, landing with my right leg draped over yours. You put your hand on my knee, holding me in place, and I lean my head against the back of the sofa.

The tears are back, silent and uncontrollable, steady and small as they trickle out of the corners of my eyes. I don't try to hold them back. I'm thankful that you pretend not to notice them. You pull off the shoe of my right foot, the one in your lap, and then peel off the sock. You stroke the top of my foot gently with your fingers, rubbing the underside with your thumb. It's not a massage, and yet the slight pressure of your thumb at the bridge is soothing. You lean forwards and rest your forehead against my knee.

We sit there listening. It is our first respite from anxiety today. My shoulders are finally relaxing, the tears dwindling away, leaving me hollow and bereft of energy.

You break the silence that has descended over us. You begin to sing softly, your voice capturing the sweet humour of Sinatra's song.

"How glad the many millions of Annabelles and Lillians, would be to capture me," You bounce your shoulder slightly with the movement and smile at me. For a moment I am confused. You lean in closer "But you had such persistence, you wore down my resistance. I fell…"

"And it was swell," I whispered along with you, finally catching on to your advances.

"I'm your big and brave and handsome Romeo," you're in full swing now, gaining confidence with every note of music. You're half-dancing, sitting down, and slowly leaning closer and closer, till I'm almost horizontal and you're lying over me. "How I won you I shall never, never know. It's not that I'm attractive, but, oh, my heart grew active when you came into view."

My legs are coming in the way: my left knee is pressed up against my chest. You move it out of the way, pushing it off the edge of the sofa. Then you're kneeling in between my legs, and pressing me further into the cushions. Your lips are almost on mine when you sing: "I've got a crush on you."

Your lips press hard against mine, as you wrap your fingers around my neck. You're on top of me, but I struggle to gain control of the kiss. I grasp at your t-shirt and pull it over your head, and then you are unbuttoning my shirt, pressing openmouthed kisses on the skin as you slowly reveal it.

I snake my arms out of the shirt, and reach up to hold your face. I kiss you hard, and you writhe above me, angling your hips to grind against mine. You drag your nails down my sides, and suck at my collarbone. I'm staring at the ceiling over your shoulder, and grasping at the skin on your back, trying to find something to hold onto. Your skin is slowly growing sticky as your movement gains vigour.

But now, I freeze. All this action seems to lose its spontaneity, and the thoughts come rushing back. Frank fucking Sinatra.

All it's all too much. Sinatra singing 'I've Got You Under My Skin' when I am _literally_ under your skin. The connotations are all too much. _Use your mentality, step up to reality. _Fuck fuck fuck.

I can't fuck to this record, not with you. (And I did with Allison, Sinatra all the time. Sinatra and wine in bed. Her body. She sang along to New York New York, on our last night together, and then she was gone… and now she's really gone.)

I wiggle out from under you, and stand. You hand tugs at my hip, and I lace my fingers through yours so you know I'm not crazy or upset. Once I've turned the record off I can breathe again.

I turn around to see you sitting up on the sofa looking concerned. I smirk as seductively as I possibly can. I want to do this; I just need to get into the mood. But I know you're watching my every move for a sign of distress. I have to careful, or else you'll be too gentle with me.

I reach down, and loop my fingers through your belt loops. I pull you up and use the momentum to force your lips against mine. Our teeth grate together, and the weight of your body against mine pushes me backwards, till my knees hit the edge of the coffee table. I'd fall over if not for your hand supporting the small of my back.

When you finally pull away you look confused. You're breathing hard, and I smile and bite my lip. Now, I've got the better of you, not the other way around. I lean in and kiss the junction between your jaw and your ear. You shudder, and close your eyes. You're more relaxed now, and we can proceed in our usual manner, without either of us tiptoeing around the other.

I lead you wordlessly to the bedroom, and you crawl onto the bed. I straddle your hips and lean back onto your bent legs. I can feel your penis pressing against the underside of my thigh, but you seem oddly relaxed as you prop yourself up onto your elbows and smile at me.

I am aware of my own arousal, but the emotion behind it is lacking. I can feel the strong, painful strain in my groin, but my chest feels cold. I have the forbidding sensation that this fuck is going to be completely unsatisfying and leave me feeling tired and weary. I frown and rub my hands up and down your chest, trying to remind myself of the emotional aspect of this, remind myself of you.

"I love your stomach," I murmur, and lean down to press soft kisses against the pout of your belly. You laugh breathlessly, and I can feel the movement ripple across your stomach. The sound of your laughter lifts the crushing weight off my chest, and I realize something: I don't particularly want to have sex, but I want to have sex with _you_, and that has to mean something. I think maybe I'd enjoy this more if we could lie together, and not actually fuck, but I know that eventually one of us would get hot or uncomfortable, and we'd drift away to our own sides of the bed. Then I'd never be able to sleep, and this would end. I need this to _not_ end.

"You're such a romantic," you whisper. You sound so amused, and normally I'd kill you for saying that, but right now, something aches inside of me, and when I meet your gaze, I can't find it within me to hide this from you. So, this is me, revealed, and this swell of fondness within me is so strong it's almost painful.

You stop laughing when I look at you, and for a moment you look distraught. I close my eyes and berate myself for ruining the moment. Before I can even try to ease us into foreplay again, you're doing it instead. You wrap your arms around my waist, and pull me down so that I'm lying with my head on your chest. Our legs are tangled together deliciously. We need more skin. I reach between us, and pop the button on your jeans, and slide down along with your briefs. I pull off my own clothes while you're kicking off your jeans.

My leg are still tangled up in my trousers, but you hardly seem to care. You grip my hips and press me down against your naked body. The initial contact shudders through me, and I have to grab onto the headboard to keep from losing my balance. You're already rotating your hips against mine, and I have to struggle to keep up. After a moment, I press your hips down with one arm to stop their desperate movement. You grin up at me like a gloating dog, and I close my eyes, somewhat embarrassed. I take deep, measured breaths, and give the initial painpleasure time to quiver through my system.

Then, I let our bodies make tentative contact again. You don't move, and after a moment, I begin to rock against you. You wrap your hand around the back of my neck and pull me in for a kiss. You lick at my bottom lip and buck up against me at the same time. The shock of your sudden movement makes me open my mouth in a silent gasp, and you use the opportunity to deepen the kiss.

Your lips leave mine and you kiss and nip your way down my neck and then over my shoulder. I grit my teeth to try and control myself, but all the while your hands are stroking my sides and then you graze your nails gently over my groin and I can't hold back my groan.

"Okay, okay, stop," I murmur breathlessly. You pull away and fall back onto the pillows. You stare at the ceiling and try to get your breath back. I can see the sweat glowing on your skin, and the heavy smell of it lingers in the air around us.

I lean over you, and yank open the bedside drawer. I can feel your breath hot on my neck, and my hands are shaking as I pull out the condom and lubricant.

As I pull back, I press a soft kiss to your forehead, and murmur into your skin: "Lemme tonight."

You don't say anything, only nod in return. But I don't mind, our sex has always been quiet.

I press three fingers into you one at a time, but I don't give you any time to get used to it before I curl my fingers up to stoke your prostate. You aren't ready for it, and you gasp, grabbing at the sheets. I repeat the movement until you're shivering beneath me.

And then I pull back. I sit back on my knees, between your splayed legs, but I make sure that I'm not touching you at all. For a long moment, we sit in silence as I watch you get your breath back, and then you smirk at me and rasp. "Fucking tease."

"I want this to last," I murmur. I begin to rub my knuckles gently against your ribs, and you sigh contentedly and close your eyes. I bite my lip, and watch, feeling sly and excited as I wait for the right moment. When you're quite relaxed, your eyes still closed, I lean forwards and press against your entrance.

I've taken you by surprise, and I can't help but giggle when you open your eyes wide and shudder. You stare at me almost accusingly, and are about to speak, when I press into you slightly.

You stutter, the words dying on your lips. Now, in a single, smooth movement, I press all the way into you. You groan out my name, and the sound arouses me terribly.

I lean over you, pressing your knees to your chest, and kiss you. Pulling back slightly, I rasp. "I love it when you say my name like that. Really makes me appreciate the Grr in Greg."

You smile at me breathlessly, and kiss me slowly. I pull away, winded, and rest my forehead on your pillow next to your head. Closing my eyes, I concentrate on making this feel good, and then gently roll my hips, moving in you.

You breathe out audibly, though my movement is slow and rhythmic. You wrap your arms around my back and hold me, palms flat on the small of my back. I close my eyes, resting all my weight on you. I feel oddly vulnerable, and weary. This feels new, your body tonight, and my pain almost soothed (ifonlyIcould). There are times when I've fucked you hard, and times when it's been gentle. Sometimes, its about your pleasure, the look on your face when I thrust into you and touch just the right spot, and sometimes it's my satisfaction at seeing you writhing beneath me, knowing that it's I who allows you to let go, to feel this.

But today, you're making_ me_ feel, and it might as well be me under you, except that I'm feeling this in chest and not in my groin. Nothing is the same. I can't tell if this is good or bad, but I want this, Iwantthissobad.

So I grit my teeth, and angle my hips correctly, and then I move and you moan unabashedly. I keep moving, fasterharder now, brushing against your prostate with every stroke. Sweat, the good kind, is making my skin slick-slippery, and it's like your body is sliding against mine as you buck your hips to meet every movement. Then you grip my hips, look into my eyes, and press me into you just where you want me, and you tighten around me and screw your eyes closed.

You toss your head back on your pillow, and bite your bottom lip. Your body rises slightly below mine, and I can feel the muscles inside of you contract around me as your whole body shudders while you come. The hot, tightness of you around me, and the look on your face is sending me over the edge, and I close my eyes because I need to concentrate, fight this, or fight to achieve this, and then I feel it: the brush of your fingers against my body as you reach between us, touching whatever you can reach.

A wave of heat flushes through me, and this is it, I've surrendered my control to you, and now it's me really _in_ you, almost a transfer of souls, letting you do this to me. Breath coming too fast, concentrate, make this last, really feel it inside of me until the last of the tingling fades and it really is over.

Your hands are gripping my arms, steadying me, and then you lower me gently onto the bed so that I'm lying next to you, my legs splayed over yours. Everything's sticky and wet, and in a few minutes we're going to feel too disgusting to lie here. So let's make the most of it.

You lean into me, and run your palms up and down my chest. You press against my ribs, my hips—the fold of bones under skin, the gentle creaking with my hollow breath. Then your hands are on my face, soothingly cool. You lift sweat-slick hair off my forehead, and run your hand through it until it is spiky. I'm too tired to talk, my eyes are already closed, my mind so close to sleep…

_He was so strong, but so small. His hips narrow, his shoulders round and heaving. I wanted to touch him everywhere, let him know how tenderly I regard him. Seeing him like that, it didn't matter any more how he had moved in me, how strong he had been. He looked so vulnerable afterwards, so tired and fragile. I was afraid he would break. He was too sad, and sex may have been a mistake (ifonlyithadn'tfeltsogood). I wanted him to open his eyes and smile at me. I wanted him to show me that he was almost okay…but maybe he was just too tired to be okay._

I can feel your gentle gaze on me. I look at you, and try to smile, but I know it comes out wrong when you frown sadly and kiss me like you're trying to heal me.

* * *

_Strangers in the night. Two lonely people, we were strangers in the night..._


End file.
